I don’t often tend to devote many blog inches to bemoaning the state of my knackered body. At least I don’t think that I do. Unless of course I am talking about about my arse, which took great offense at having to step up at the birth of my daughter and has been sullen and resentful ever since, in which case I put my hands up.
I am more likely to post a picture of a cake than to post about dieting or exercise. I like to imagine that you all have a picture in your minds of a slim, fit, young and active Bibsey Mama who doesn’t have to worry about such tiresome things as calories and fittness. This would be much the same as the picture that I fastidiously preserve of myself in my own mind. A vision only to be shattered by every f*cking photo that I see of myself these days.
For those who actually know me, please think of me circa 1995 or ’98, or 2003 for that matter, and hold that thought. Yikes, what a happy, and not in the least bit disturbing, little trip into my unreconstructed psyche this is turning out to be.
Anyway, it’s that time of year again. I am gearing up for a visit to the UK and as usual, should you be looking for me, you can find me wringing my hands in front of the wardrobe agonising over what to pack. And, as usual, I am going into a spin.
Here are the issues as I see them:
- Nearly all my warm clothes are pre-pregnancy clothes
- And all my smart clothes are pre-pregnancy clothes
- Most of these clothes are pretty knackered (having been stretched beyond all dignity during pregnancy)
- None of them fit
- Whatever I take for an autumn visit to the London will be ill-fitting, uncomfortable and lacking in even an ounce of sartorial merit
- I know that my friends and family don’t give a sh*t what I am wearing BUT
- Contrary to all physical evidence, I do
The halcyon days of breastfeeding super-weight loss are long behind me. And knowing this I had a plan. The plan was to drink less cava and eat less chocolate and perhaps walk to some places. Fiendish in its simplicity. You see all I had to do to was lose a little bit of weight. And we all know that even rubbish clothes look better when you are thin, right? The plan was hatched in my mind about three weeks ago around about the same time as is was shelved in favour of the cava and chocolate plan. The post title suggests that I have taken desperate measures. I have in fact taken none.
Time, the bastard, has snuck up on me. I now have pretty much exactly a week to lose a little bit of weight. This is not the easy-peasy, gentle four-week plan that I had first envisaged. This situation requires nothing short of a bout of good old fashioned dysentery or extreme heartache. Except that we have a busy week ahead and I have to pack, dye my hair and print out my boarding passes and everything. No time to be ill. NO TIME. No time for good intentions or bad. NO TIME.
My time is so nearly up that I might as well start facing facts. I will be flying in jeans that are so tight that the zip keeps coming down. Either those or the ones that have lost all will and sense of self around the inner thigh and should only really be worn for an appointment with the gynecologist. I don’t even have a gyne. I am ranting. Spinning. Do you see?
I’m not sure what good writing about it will do. But I suspect there will be no change. I will do what I normally do which is to cover myself is cava and chocolate and hope that no one notices what I am wearing. The autumn wind will whistle through the holes in my clothes, if it can squeeze past, and I will play on in manner of string quartet on the Titanic.
Is it just me or does anyone else feel like this when returning ‘home’ to the UK from warmer more laid-back climes?